Robin Cook - Chromosome 6

“What’s the big deal about smoke?” Siegfried asked. “Why does he care? He sounds worse than you.”

“He thinks the bonobos might be using fire,” Bertram said. “He hasn’t said so explicitly, but I’m sure that’s what is on his mind.”

“What do you mean ‘using fire’?” Siegfried asked. He leaned forward. “You mean like making a campfire for warmth or cooking?” Siegfried laughed without disturbing his omnipresent sneer. “I don’t know about you urban Americans. Out here in the bush you’re scared of your own shadow.”

“I know it’s preposetrous,” Bertram said. “Of course no one else has seen it, or if they have, it’s probably from a lightning storm. The problem is, he wants to go out there.”

“No one goes near the island!” Siegfried growled. “Only during a harvest, and it’s only the harvest team! That’s a directive from the home office. There are no exceptions save for Kimba, the pygmy, delivering the supplementary food.”

“I told him the same thing,” Bertram said. “And I don’t think he’ll do anything on his own. Still, I thought I should tell you about it just the same.”

“It’s good that you did,” Siegfried said irritably. “The little prick. He’s a goddamned thorn in my side.”

“There is one other thing,” Bertram said. “He told Raymond Lyons about the smoke.”

Siegfried slapped the surface of his desk with his good hand loud enough to cause Bertram to jump. He stood up and stepped to the shuttered window overlooking the town square. He glared over at the hospital. He’d never liked the epicene bookish researcher from their first meeting. When he’d learned Kevin was to be coddled and accommodated in the second best house in the town, Siegfried had boiled over. He’d wanted to assign the house as a perk to one of his loyal underlings.

Siegfried balled his good hand into a fist and gritted his teeth. “What a meddling pain in the ass,” he said.

“His research is almost done,” Bertram said. “It would be a shame if he was to muck things up just when everything is going so well.”

“What did Lyons say?” Siegfried asked.

“Nothing,” Bertram said. “He accused Kevin of letting his imagination run wild.”

“I might have to have someone watch Kevin,” Siegfried said. “I will not have anyone destroy this program. That’s all there is to it. It’s too lucrative.”

Bertram stood up. “That’s your department,” he said. He started for the door, confident he’d planted the appropriate seed.

MARCH 5, 1997

7:25 A.M.

NEW YORK CITY

THE combination of cheap red wine and little sleep slowed Jack’s pace on his morning bicycle commute. His customary time of arrival in the ID room of the medical examiner’s office was seven-fifteen. But as he got off the elevator on the first floor of the morgue en route to the ID room, he noticed it was already seven twenty-five, and it bothered him. It wasn’t as if he were late, it was just that Jack liked to keep to a schedule. Discipline in relation to his work was one of the ways he’d learned to avoid depression.

His first order of business was to pour himself a cup of coffee from the communal pot. Even the aroma seemed to have a beneficial effect, which Jack attributed to Pavlovian conditioning. He took his first sip. It was a heavenly experience. Though he doubted the caffeine could work quite so quickly, he felt like his mild hangover headache was already on the mend.

He stepped over to Vinnie Amendola, the mortuary tech whose day shift overlapped the night shift. He was ensconced as usual at one of the office’s government-issued metal desks. His feet were parked on the corner, and his face hidden behind his morning newspaper.

Jack pulled the edge of the paper down to expose Vinnie’s Italianate features to the world. He was in his late twenties, in sorry physical shape, but handsome. His dark, thick hair was something Jack envied. Jack had been noticing over the previous year a decided thinning of his gray-streaked brown hair on the crown of his head.

“Hey, Einstein, what’s the paper say about the Franconi body incident?” Jack asked. Jack and Vinnie worked together on a frequent basis, both appreciating the other’s flippancy, quick wit, and black humor.

“I don’t know,” Vinnie said. He tried to pull his beloved paper from Jack’s grasp. He was embroiled in the Knicks stats from the previous night’s basketball game.

Jack’s forehead furrowed. Vinnie might not have been an academic genius, but about current news items, he was something of a resident authority. He read the newspapers cover to cover every day and had impressive recall.

“There’s nothing about it in the paper?” Jack questioned. He was shocked. He’d imagined the media would have had a field day with the embarrassment of the body disappearing from the morgue. Bureaucratic mismanagement was a favorite journalistic theme.

“I didn’t notice it,” Vinnie said. He yanked harder, freed the paper, and reburied his face.

Jack shook his head. He was truly surprised and wondered how Harold Bingham, the chief medical examiner, had managed such a media coverup. Just as Jack was about to turn away, he caught the headlines. It said: Mob Thumbs Nose at Authority. The subhead read: “Vaccarro crime family kills one of its own then steals the body out from under the noses of city officials.”

Jack snatched the entire paper from the surprised Vinnie’s grasp. Vinnie’s legs fell to the floor with a thump. “Hey, come on!” he complained.

Jack folded the paper then held it so that Vinnie was forced to stare at the front page.

“I thought you said the story wasn’t in the paper,” Jack said.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t in there,” Vinnie said. “I said I didn’t see it.”

“It’s the headlines, for crissake!” Jack said. He pointed at them with his coffee cup for emphasis.

Vinnie lunged out to grab his paper. Jack pulled it away from his grasp.

“Come on!” Vinnie whined. “Get your own freakin’ paper.”

“You’ve got me curious,” Jack said. “As methodical as you are, you’d have read this front-page story on your subway ride into town. What’s up, Vinnie?”

“Nothing!” Vinnie said. “I just went directly to the sports page.”

Jack studied Vinnie’s face for a moment. Vinnie looked away to avoid eye contact.

“Are you sick?” Jack asked facetiously.

“No!” Vinnie snapped. “Just give me the paper.”

Jack slipped out the sports pages and handed them over. Then he went over to the scheduling desk and started the article. It began on the front page and concluded on the third. As Jack anticipated, it was written from a sarcastic, mocking point of view. It cast equal aspersion on the police department and the medical examiner’s office. It said the whole sordid affair was just another glowing example of the gross incompetence of both organizations.

Laurie breezed into the room and interrupted Jack. As she removed her coat, she told him that she hoped he felt better than she.

“Probably not,” Jack admitted. “It was that cheap wine I brought over. I’m sorry.”

“It was also the five hours of sleep,” Laurie said. “I had a terrible time hauling myself out of bed.” She put her coat down on a chair. “Good morning, Vinnie,” she called out.

Vinnie stayed silent behind his sports page.

“He’s pouting because I violated his paper,” Jack said. Jack got up so Laurie could sit down at the scheduling desk. It was Laurie’s week to divvy up the cases for autopsy among the staff. “The headlines and cover story are about the Franconi incident.”

“I wouldn’t wonder,” Laurie said. “It was all over the local news, and I heard it announced that Bingham will be on Good Morning America to attempt damage control.”